


The Things You Say

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, I don't really know what this is, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Oral Sex, a bit of angst, actual sex, but not that explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 19:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10860102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: It takes John nine days to notice.





	The Things You Say

It probably doesn’t register the first time because there are so many firsts happening these days, there’s no reason John should recognize it for what it is.

The first time was early, still, just six days after they had finally stopped being idiots, although they were even idiotic in the way they went about it, during the umpteenth argument about Sherlock being an idiot and needlessly risking his life during a criminal investigation. John had harangued him the entire taxi ride home and through the front door and up the stairs until Sherlock whirled around, grabbed the back of John’s neck with both hands, and slammed their mouths together.

“Shut up,” Sherlock had said breathlessly between kisses. “God, would you just shut... _up_ …”

John did, indeed, shut up. And that was the end of that. Or the beginning, really.

* * * * *

So. The first time that John didn’t notice was in a lazy moment, as they were drifting through some refractory downtime. Passing the minutes in sleepy idleness, affection with no real purpose, the sensation of touch for its own sake, still a bit of disbelief that they finally reached this point. Sherlock, his eyes blinking heavily, had reached his arms up to catch hold of the headboard, just because the stretch felt good. John lifted his head from where it had been resting on Sherlock’s ribcage and started to mouth over the expanse of skin. He smoothed his hands along Sherlock’s waist and glanced up, Sherlock’s hair a mess, his face blissfully relaxed, his stretched-out chest rising and falling with even, satisfied breaths, his arms taut and lengthened, and John muttered, “Fucking hell, you’re gorgeous.”

It was all over in a second, but in that second Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and his limbs twitched the tiniest bit in their post-fucking languidness, and his head made a motion to burrow into the pillow but didn’t actually. Of all this John registered only the twitching but assigned it no significance, and his eyes closed as he continued breathing in the skin of Sherlock’s abdomen.

* * * * *

The second time was two days later, a bit more in the heat of the moment. And it wasn’t that John didn’t notice it. He just thought it was something else.

He was over Sherlock, moving in him, pounding a rhythm tight and controlled to keep himself just this side of losing his mind. John’s eyes were fixed on Sherlock’s face, still trying to read the signs, to learn what he wanted, what he needed, how to move to make _him_ lose _his_ mind. He kept that desire as his focus, his singular purpose. He kept moving, ignoring his own need just until he felt Sherlock’s muscles lock and watched his head snap back and heard a shuddered groan and felt the warm slickness between their bodies and yes, yes, _yes_.

“That’s it, love, God, you beautiful thing,” John breathed hotly into his ear. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock’s face collapsing into a wince, and his head turning away, in what John assumed were still the throes of orgasm, and he was only vaguely aware because moments later he slammed his own release into Sherlock’s body, groaning and gasping against his neck.

When John regained some situational awareness, he raised his head to look down at Sherlock’s face, still a bit flushed, brows knotted together. John reached up and smoothed a hand over Sherlock’s forehead, through the curls, and pressed his mouth to the salty skin at his temple, whispering, “You’re amazing, Sherlock, you’re...” and Sherlock immediately turned to capture John’s mouth with his own, almost roughly at first, then slowing as they continued to come down, breathing each other in.

* * * * *

The third time, which was the next night, John noticed.

He was sprawled on his stomach in between Sherlock’s legs, completely absorbed in the blowjob he was currently performing. He wondered if Sherlock would be proud of the observational skills he was using just then, cataloging Sherlock’s reactions to the subtle variations in pace and pressure and suction and things he might be doing with his tongue.

As John pulled off and replaced his mouth with his fist, mostly so he could rest his jaw a moment, he stared up the length of Sherlock’s body, and even though he had done this more than a few times so far, he couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of the sight of Sherlock Holmes underneath him, blissed out and shameless.

“God, you really are a thing of beauty,” he said quietly.

And instantly Sherlock froze and fisted the sheets and came back to himself, the look of ecstasy replaced with an almost indistinguishable look of distress. But John saw it for what it was, and slowed his movement, then stopped altogether and pulled himself up.

Sherlock’s eyes were riveted to the ceiling, and shining with tears.

“Sherlock?” John immediately crawled up the bed, dropping to an elbow alongside Sherlock’s body, doctor mode kicking in almost involuntarily. “What is it? Are you okay?” He didn’t think he could possibly have been doing anything that hurt, but he ran his hand over Sherlock’s torso, soothing, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said too quickly, still staring at the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

“You’re not,” John said, still smoothing his hand in circles over Sherlock’s midsection. “Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock shook his head, offering a clearly fake smile to John before glancing down suggestively. “Feel free to resume your previous activity…”

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “You can’t just… Look, this is new for us. We’ve only been at it, what, a week?”

“Nine days,” Sherlock corrected.

“Exactly. Which means that for the forseeable future, we are going to have to talk our way through stuff. Out with it.”

Sherlock blew out a breath and returned his gaze to the ceiling. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just… I’m not used to… some of the things you say.”

“The things I say?” John repeated, a bit puzzled. “What things?”

“The nice things,” Sherlock said. “About me.” He rolled his eyes, and John saw his frustration. Sherlock so rarely struggled with words. “You know…” He sighed and waved a hand instead.

John thought for a second, the realization starting to dawn. “Do you mean in bed?”

“Well, I mean generally, but yes, I suppose, specifically… when you tell me...” His voice trailed off as he took a deep breath, still looking anywhere but at John.

John’s eyes narrowed as he studied Sherlock’s face. “You mean, when I tell you how fucking gorgeous you are?”

And even then, even in the context of this conversation, John could see how instantaneously uncomfortable Sherlock became, and now that he was looking for it, it was bloody obvious. Sherlock wanted to crawl out of his skin at the words, fidgeting his limbs, grimacing. “John…”

John’s head spun for a second. He had no idea how many partners Sherlock had had before - he supposed they’d talk about it one day, when they had moved through this first phase of having sex almost every minute they were awake - but it seemed impossible that not one of them had praised him. Unless they had, and then never tried again. Sherlock’s discomfort was not false modesty, it was clearly genuine anguish, and John could see how it might put off a casual lover, and he found himself getting angry at everyone Sherlock had ever met who made him feel less than what he was.

“Oh, my God. Sherlock. Love. Look at me.” He waited until Sherlock finally turned back toward him, and then John held his gaze, for one moment, then another, then another. Sherlock’s eyes watered again and when he tried to turn his head, John’s hand traced his body up to his jaw, and brought him back.

“No. Keep looking at me,” John said, so quietly. “You are beautiful, Sherlock, like it or not, and I’m going to keep telling you that until you believe me.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth.

“I can’t,” Sherlock whispered.

“You will,” John whispered back. Another kiss, a longer one this time, until he felt something shift.

“I’m really stubborn.” Sherlock’s eyes had started to spark, and his mouth may have perked up at a corner, just for a second.

“I’m really persistent.” John kissed him a third time, then lifted his head. “So we’re going to keep trying, okay? I mean, I really don’t want to make you uncomfortable...” and with this, he began to kiss his way back down Sherlock’s body... “but there will likely be many occasions when I just...” kiss... “won’t be able…” kiss… “to stop myself…” kiss... “and I can’t have you getting all weepy every time.”

“Fuck off,” Sherlock muttered down at him.

“You fuck off,” John replied into Sherlock’s stomach. “I’m busy.”

Sherlock’s hand rested gently on the back of John’s head. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

John looked up to meet his eyes, then grinned, maybe a little bit evilly, even as he took Sherlock in his mouth, and out of his head, once again.


End file.
